Caesar's Collections
by tracelynn
Summary: Drabbles, shorts, poems, and more, all written for Caesar's Palace challenges/contests and most in the Hunger Games universe.
1. Conflicting

**Written for Caesar's Palace Summer Olympics Challenge (Artistic Gymnastics)**

 **917 words of actual story**

 **Hunger Games**

 **Pairing(s): Wiress and Beetee**

 **Freeverse**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

she is

b-r-o-k-e-n

she is

l

o

s

t

in her _dream_ world

[where he makes it all _better]_

and her _dream_ world

is her _real_ world

[sometimes they _can_ be one in the same]

when his b-r-o-k-e-n lips

[the only broken thing about him]

touch her b-r-o-k-e-n lips

[ _dream_ and _real_ intermingle]

she is b-r-o-k-e-n into

and when the straight jacket

[white as snow]

hugs her b-r-o-k-e-n

body

[the _real_ world]

she imagines it is his

 **whole** body

[the _dream_ world most of the time]

entwined with hers

and then her fingers

turn to knives

[scissor scissor scissor]

and the straight jacket

falls away

falling like snow

from her body

[the _dream_ world, they never let her loose]

snow must always fall

he tells her that

snow will fall

she doesn't know why

but she agrees

maybe it's because he kisses her when she says

yes

[he doesn't kiss her a lot]

* * *

He is **whole.**

He is not broken.

He is **whole.**

He is not a mortal.

He is **everlasting.**

He is not pliable.

He is **manipulative.**

He is not inferior.

He is **SUPERIOR.**

He opens the door.

He stares at the white envelope with a smile.

He picks it up,

feels the coins jangling inside. He chuckles.

He pours them into his hand. Disks of gold.

Disks of silver.

A disk of pyrite.

And he thought Coin was smarter than that.

It isn't easy to buy his services, after all.

* * *

empty, b-r-o-k-e-n laughter

echoing

bouncing

reverberating

[she likes synonyms]

[synonyms are _real_ world]

guns

 _blazing_

 _SPITTING_

fire

[into their painted, bloated faces]

insects

crushed, b-r-o-k-e-n, underfoot

their little screams

their little b-r-o-k-e-n bodies

b-r-o-k-e-n lives

never as b-r-o-k-e-n as her

[now that is truly _real_ world]

* * *

His reputation is **whole.**

It is **whole** even as he stares into the indignant eyes

of Woof.

He is not dumb, this Woof,

this _barkbark,_ as she calls him in her b-r-o-k-e-n language.

He is **whole,**

just like him.

He finds that threatening.

"You will die in the opening minutes," he hisses, his usually **whole**

face

his usually **whole**

 _ **mind**_

b-r-e-a-k-i-n-g

before his eyes.

Woof will not comply.

They will make him comply.

By the end of the night, there are three b-r-o-k-e-n Victors.

* * *

pieces

she counts them

1

2

3

4

5

her b-r-o-k-e-n minds stops

counting

she tries again

1

2

3

4

5

too b-r-o-k-e-n

he tries to

mend her

but cannot

[the _dream_ world, because how can he fail?]

because who can mend something

shattered so much

b-r-o-k-e-n so much

that it is dust?

* * *

 **Whole.**

 **He is WHOLE!**

He screams it over and over

as she cackles

begging for his lips

his lips on hers

he's breaking

not b-r-e-a-k-i-n-g

it's not that bad

but he's losing his edges

losing himself

he takes the gun

and shoots their Avox

that feels better.

broken more, eh?

well there won't be need for more deals

after they get out.

They are separated

taken from the hovercraft

he is in a tube

[his mind is racing]

he feels the heat of the jungle as he rises

clockwork

he spots the girl on fire

his pawn

everyone's pawn

he stifles a chuckle

she thinks she's so special

[with her stupid berries]

there's been dozens before her

dozens just like her

[dozens with fire to overpower out hers]

she's s _pecial?_

he thinks not

broken

broken

broken

broken

b-r-o-k-e-n

broken but disguised

* * *

tick tock

she has the job

of being unstable

[she's more than unstable]

to trick the mockingjay

[poor little bird]

she just wants to break the birdy's wings

watch her flap aimlessly as she dies

but he says no no no no no

 _no_

he whispers it in her ear as they run through the red rain

she likes its taste

she likes as blight chokes

yes blight

choking

it's quite a sight

[she's always hated him. she desperately hopes its _real_ world]

johanna is disgusted

as she chuckles

b-r-o-k-e-n chuckles

no

 _ **b-r-o-k-e-n**_ chuckles

because she's gone for good

and there's no going back

she's always liked red

she licks it from her skin

delicious

they find the broken bird soon enough

with her loaf, with the sugarcube

but no old seawitch

[she always hated the seawitch]

she says tick tock

she tricks the mockingjay

clipping wings she cannot

but she can tick tock

* * *

He has regained his **whole**.

He is healing.

At least he hopes so.

Gears fill his mind.

He feels sane.

She is _**b-r-o-k-e-n.**_

So much so that he knows kissing won't help.

[kissing quiets her demons for a bit]

When the Cornucopia island whirls around,

when the knife digs into her chest,

when she grins as she dies,

nothing hurts.

Nothing breaks.

He feels nothing.

He never loved Wiress.

He is clinical.

He is a commodity.

He is a genius.

He is a whole.

People like him never love.

They especially never love _**b-r-o-k-e-n**_ people like her.


	2. Trenches

**Title: Trenches**

 **Written For Caesar's Palace Claw Machine Challenge (Sour Candy - words: bellicose, drag, addiction)**

 **697 words of actual story**

 **Hunger Games**

 **Pairing(s): None**

 **Short Story**

* * *

Dagan Hartfield and Silo McIlroy sit in the hurriedly dug trench, hands wrapped tightly around their rifles. They peer over the edge of the trench like many of the others, looking around at the empty, muddy plain around them. The field had once been a barley field, but the rebels had razed it in rebellion several months ago, when District 13 led the charge against the oppressive Capitol. Things seemed to be going swell at that point. District 13 had claimed all of the other Districts excepting 1, 2, and 4, who remained loyal to the Capitol instead. The tide was turning; the revolution was in full swing.

Five months later: Districts 3, 5, and 12 have dropped to the Capitol, while 6, 8, and 9 itself are days away from surrendering. Only 7, 10, and 13 remain independent, really, and Districts 7 and 10 are only still with a majority of their population because they are the biggest Districts, and their people and rebels are spread thin, so it is hard to kill and capture them. Even District 13 is caving. The rebellion is failing, falling face first into the mud.

Of course, Dagan Hartfield and Silo McIlroy don't know this. In fact, they've been lied to, told that 3, 5, and 12 are still under rebel control, that 6 and 8 are flourishing in battle, that if they'd just shoot their goddamn rifles a little better, District 9 would be flourishing, too.

They don't hear the far off rumbles of the hovercraft that are gliding over the town of Flourbrooke seven miles away. Even Dagan, who has the sharpest eyesight in the entire company, cannot see the smoke rising from the razed village as all two hundred and sixteen of its residents are either slaughtered or captured. They don't hear the pleading screams or the crackling of the flames as the wooden huts collapse and the fire spreads to the village's small barley and wheat fields. Dagan cannot see, either, that the hovercraft fleet is now changing directions, leaving behind over two hundred corpses. Dagan cannot see that the hovercraft fleet is heading straight towards them, with revolutionary cloaking devices turned on. They are nearly invisible. The trench won't even see the attack until it's literally in their faces, burning and spitting and consuming them, blasting them to smithereens.

Dagan, age 17, watches with discontent as his 39 year old "battle buddy", Silo, takes a drag from his cigarette. Silo lets the smoke pour out of his mouth in a slow stream, watching as it fades, intermixing with the smoke in the air from the war.

"You know those things can kill you," Dagan whispers as he adjusts the strap of his rifle.

"You know you could learn to shut up while a man's enjoying his last cigarette," Silo hisses back.

"The last?"

"Well, Surley's got another pack, so surely I can get some from him."

"Surley died in the last attack, jackass."

"Oh yeah. Did anyone grab his pack?"

"I did," a fellow smoking addict, Wheaton Chamberlain, speaks up from several feet away. Dagan shoots him a disgusted, pissed off look, and Wheaton shuts up.

"Well, give me one when ya gotta moment. This one's going out and I don't have anymore matches. I'll need to chainsmoke."

"You're disgusting."

"You wanna pick a fight, boy? This old 'addict' can handle himself against a scrawny 17 year old chap like you."

Dagan began to speak up in his defense, but then they all noticed a strange shimmer in the air. The hovercrafts had arrived, and the lead one had broken through its cloaking device to extend its firing cannons. Wheaton Chamberlain quickly set off the alarm, but it was too late. The bombs had already been fired, and the trench was consumed in moments, every single one of the seventy four freedom fighters inside it torched to death in milliseconds. There was enough fire to light a _thousand_ of Silo McIlroy's cigarettes. Sadly for him, he was just a lumpy pile of ash on the muddy trench floor.


	3. Yacht

**Title: Yacht**

 **Written For Caesar's Palace Summer Olympics Challenge (Cycling Road)**

 **1,081 words of actual story**

 **Hunger Games**

 **Pairing(s): Odesta, onesided Finnick/OC**

 **Short Story**

* * *

Only five Victors are desperate or foolish enough to travel to Clamson Beach on the mangrove coated fringes of District 4. All five travel at varying speeds; one lazy, one leisurely, one excited, one limping, slow, and one frantic, hopeful, really. Five Victors arrive at the hidden blue gray shack, hidden by a cluster of mangroves, drenched by the salty sea and weathered by the whipping sea breeze. Five Victors meet with thin smiles as night falls and they wait for Finnick Odair.

Guinevere Harthen of District 10, Victor of the 67th Annual Hunger Games, grins as she rides lazily over to her next door neighbor, District 4. Her driver is plump, like her, but not rich like her. Guinevere is the perfect example of an outer District Victor gone sour. She gorges on food, burrows herself in money and men and jewelry. She lives luxurious, lazy life, and when she receives the note saying that Finnick Odair is throwing a secret yacht party, she doesn't think twice. Guinevere Harthen loves a good party, after all. What could be so wrong about this one? Guinevere is the third party guest to arrive.

Chaise Lungs of District 1, Victor of the 54th Annual Hunger Games, takes his time preparing for the rave that will definitely happen on Finnick Odair's yacht that night. He calls up his private hovercraft and boards, telling the driver to take his time, to fly leisurely. Chaise is good friends with Finnick. Finnick won't mind if he's a bit late. He enjoys the ride, and tips his pilot after he departs from the craft. Finnick Odair can surely throw a mean party, and Chaise is a great party goer. Chaise Lungs is the fourth party guest to arrive.

Lynna Johnson of District 6, Victor of the 61st Hunger Games, races excitedly down the streets, looking for someone to drive her to the yacht party. She finds a Peacekeeper who is happily willing to take her. For a few coins, of course. She gets in the Peacekeeper's old jalopy. The thing is breaking down and not very fast, but Lynna's spurring and excited aura make the Peacekeeper drive quickly. By the time the sun is setting, Lynna Johnson has arrived at the shack. She will make Finnick Odair love her now. He cannot avoid her advances any longer, even if he is dating that crazed Annie Cresta girl. Lynna Johnson is the second party guest to arrive.

Needle Montgomery of District 8, Victor of the 13th Hunger Games, takes his sweet old time driving his broken down pickup to the yacht party. He does not like parties. He does not like noise. He does not like people, really. But he especially does not like the Capitol. Needle is convinced that this party is secretly a rebel meeting. After all, Finnick, Beetee, and the Mockingjay have all escaped the arena, it seems, if his sources are correct. They are safe in 13. What if this is a message from Finnick, telling any rebellious Victor that the way to join the rebellion is to meet at the shack? Needle Montgomery is the fifth and final party guest to arrive.

Annie Cresta of District 4, Victor of the 70th Hunger Games, hesitantly rips open the letter. She sees the words "Finnick" and "party" and "meet you there", and she is already bawling. Finnick...alive? Her baby, her lover, her fiance? Tears flood from her eyes. The word flood brings her back to the arena, and she stumbles inside before she starts screaming as the events of the 70th Games play in slow motion in her head. She watches Seaward's head fly from his shoulders, courtesy of the boy from 1's blade. She watches the water pour in. She watches as the poor 13 year old from 9, who Annie had been chasing, drowns ten feet away from her. Annie screams until she can't any more. Then she packs her things and runs to the shack, to the mangroves, to her lover. Finnick has come back for her. Annie Cresta is the first party guest to arrive.

The five Victors spot the yacht when it's about a quarter mile out from the beach. Multicolored strands of light glitter across it, and people are already aboard the ship, partying and drinking and laughing and having fun. Guinevere and Chaise share and excited look, liking the looks of the party. Lynna is shaking with excitement; seduction is already bubbling through her veins as she thinks of the ways to seduce Finnick. Needle is baffled. Is this actually a simple party, and he over analyzed the message? And Annie is pushing back tears. Finnick is on that boat. Her love is so close. She can feel it.

The yacht arrives, and the five Victors climb aboard, some hesitantly, others quickly, ravenously. Guinevere and Chaise fade into the party immediately, grabbing flutes of the nearest drink and pouring them down their throats. Lynna starts asking everyone where she can find a bathroom so she can change into her seductive dress, and Annie and Needle ban together to search for Finnick. It's strange, Needle realizes, that most of the people on the yacht have painted faces, glittering nails, strange ornaments. Then he realizes somethign that makes him stop right in his tracks and start running for the exit.

All of the party goers are Capitol citizens.

It's already too late for them, though. Guinevere and Chaise are already dead, their drinks poisoned with liquid nightlock. Lynna has a gun pressed up against her head, courtesy of a hidden Peacekeeper. Lynna screams Finnick's name as the bullet enters her head. And a dozen or so Peacekeepers encircle the cowering pair of Annie and Needle. One Peacekeeper kicks Needle in the chest, and he goes into cardiac arrest from fright. They leave him there to die as the yacht is evacuated of the gloating Capitol citizens. Some are sad to see some favorite Victors dead, but it's either the Victors' lives or theirs. So they comply.

The Peacekeepers take hold of Annie, handcuffing her, kicking her to silence her sobs, her screeches, all of it inhuman. They shove her in the pantry of the kitchens and lock the door. Annie weeps in the musty, dark sliver of a room.

And the yacht sails towards the Capitol, its ride easy and short. Smooth sailing indeed.


	4. Allergens

**Title: Allergens**

 **Written For Caesar's Palace Claw Machine Challenge (Dialogue -** **"And then he blew his nose, offered the tissue to me, and asked if I would like to do the same!")**

 **345 words of actual story**

 **Hunger Games**

 **Pairing(s): Prim and Rory**

 **Short Story**

* * *

"And then he blew his nose, offered the tissue to me, and asked if I would like to do the same!" Prim chuckled as she rubbed Buttercup's raw pink belly. Buttercup mewled, and then his quiet mewls turned to full body shudders and loud meows as Prim scratched him behind the fluffy orange ears. Katniss trotted past, looking uneasily down at the two. Buttercup hissed and Katniss walked on by.

"It's just so funny, Buttercup!" she said. "How could he know that I get all sneezy when we go to the Meadow, when we get around the flowers and grass and 'pollen', as Ms. Lenza calls it. She says I have 'allergies.' Allergies is a strange word; it sounds rather bad, if you ask me. Do you have an allergies, my little kitty cat?" Prim then continued to coo incoherently as she rubbed and scratched her beloved, mangy cat.

"It's just, Rory Hawthorne _gave me his tissue!_ He's allergic too! No one else is. It's just us...me and Rory Hawthorne...Primrose Hawthorne...hmm. Gale might be a problem though. Is it illegal for two sisters to marry two brothers? Probably. Maybe we'll just have to get rid of Gale, then, somehow...but Rory Hawthorne spared me a glance! Sure, we've known each other forever, but _Rory Hawthorne!_ He's the hottest kid in our class, Buttercup, and he let me use his tissue! Now, it wasn't any old rag; it was a real tissue, paper and everything, from District 7! He must've saved up for weeks to be able to buy a pack from the town square, cuz only those merchant kids can afford the real things easily. He let me use it, Buttercup, oh my..." And it continued as so, with Prim gushing over her newfound case of puppy love for Rory Hawthorne, and Buttercup mewling and meowing and making a variety of other strange noises as Prim petted him and snuggled him. It was a good day for the both of them.


	5. Crafty

**Title: Crafty**

 **Written For Caesar's Palace Summer Olympics Challenge (Sailing)**

 **566 words of actual story**

 **Hunger Games**

 **Pairing(s): None**

 **Short Story**

* * *

"Grampy!" Celestia calls. "Grampy, Grampy, Grampy!"

"Yes, Celly?" Coriolanus answers with a big smile on his face. He ducks into the room and swoops up his little granddaughter, who squeals as he twirls her through the air. Her pale pink dress spins around her, and her little plastic golden crown nearly falls off of her head. Coriolanus rights it with the grin never fading, not one bit, as he sets Celestia down and lays down next to her on the carpet.

"Grampy, do you wanna play architect with me?"

"Sure, Celly."

An Avox scurries off and reappears a moment later with a tub of small plastic blocks that lock together, once called Legos in the bygone age. Now they are just called blocks. The Avox sets down the box and runs off.

"You don't have any holo blocks, Grampy?"

"Why, Celly, you've guessed your big birthday gift!"

"Really! Yay!"

Coriolanus tucks Celestia close to his side as they empty the box onto the carpet. Most of the blocks are shiny silver or glass like, so children could recreate the buildings that they see around them in the Capitol.

Celestia is 7 years of age, and she fancies the most recent Victor of the Games, Augustus Braun of District 1, from the 67th. Celestia and Coriolanus recreate the aspects of the 67th Games. It had been held in one giant cluster of skyscrapers. They build the skyscraper the Games had concluded within, painstakingly constructing it from hundreds of blocks. They build two small blobs of blocks that resemble the male tributes from 10 and 2 and the female tribute from 1, and then they reenact the finale. First, the District 10 male is gutted by Augustus action figure. Meanwhile, Augustus' District partner, seemingly shy and quiet, becomes vicious, springing atop the stronger and more proficient male from 2, ending his life in moments. Then it is District 1 vs. District 1. Coriolanus plays as the District 1 Female, Silvera, and Celestia plays as Augustus. They reenact the last battle almost exactly, both giggling as the two battle, and eventually Augustus swipes off the gray block head of Silvera, ending the Games and becoming the Victor.

They laugh and play a bit more, and then Celestia demolishes the building that they painstakingly built. They leave the Avox to clean up the mess, and Celestia prances off to go play with the Vice President's daughter, Ophelia. They're probably going to go have a tea party, like normal, except the guests are Coriolanus' advisers and actual tea and biscuits are served. The perks of being the President's granddaughter, undoubtedly, are large.

Coriolanus locks himself in his private study, returning to the project he had been working on before. He swirls the mixture of liquids, of poisons, in his vial, before using a dropper to deposit small drops of the poison onto a bouquet of snow white roses. When Senator Crassus' wife picks up these flowers, the poison will quickly enter her veins. She will have the symptoms of bronchitis, and in a couple of days she will be dead, even with medical help. Coriolanus is a master of construction and destruction. He can create, and he can build. He can play blocks with his granddaughter one moment, and then craft a lethal poison the next.

After all, every monster _is_ human. Even Coriolanus Snow.


	6. 13 Miles

**Title: 13 Miles**

 **Written For Caesar's Palace Summer Olympics Challenge (Shooting)**

 **1,219 words of actual story**

 **Hunger Games**

 **Pairing(s): None**

 **Short Story**

* * *

What could go wrong in thirteen miles?

Bonnie Organza and Twill Eyelet would soon find out.

Twill squeezed Bonnie's hand as she hobbled forward, leaning heavily on her branch crutch. Bonnie, wheezing, swept her strawberry blonde hair out of her eyes. She was only 14 year of age, the poor thing. She had a twisted ankle, and had been starved until Katniss Everdeen, the heaven sent Mockingjay, appeared in the shack they were staying in. Bonnie ate the cheese bun that Katniss gave her. They feasted, and then they parted. That was three days ago.

They were now in much worse shape.

If Twill's antiquated map was right, they were thirteen miles away from District 13. Bonnie moans constantly, her stomach begging for food, her throat gasping for water. Twill manages her pain better, although she's in even worse shape nutritionally; she hasn't eaten anything in two days. They were both thinner than thin, and their plastic-ey white and black Peacekeeper uniforms hung limply on their malnourished frames. They were both tired, and they had sleep deprivation. They'd kept pressing forward, knowing that they needed to make it to District 13 before wolves, starvation, or dehydration got them.

Sweat sloshed in Twill's heavy boots; she'd contemplated taking them off before. But she knew that wasn't smart. At least she'd allowed herself to take off the woolen stockings, but even then, her feet perspired terribly. Sweat soaked her entire being, and acne, stuff she hadn't had since she quit school at age 16 to work in the factories, was peppering her face. She wanted to take a bath, but she can't. Any water they find, they drink. It was as simple as that.

They slogged on through the rising temperatures. Bonnie was near the tipping point, her face scrunched up in pain, her breaths ragged and strung out. Eleven miles to go, Twill solemnly announced. Bonnie just moaned and collapsed there and then on the forest floor.

"I can't do it, Twill," Bonnie muttered, eyelids scrunched together from the pain coursing through her wrecked body. "Go...go on, Twill. Come on. Go...go to 13. For the both of us. Please. I just...you can't die, too. You just can't."

"You will make it, Bonnie. We can rest for a bit, and then pick it up again." They sat on a chunk of concrete that laid randomly in the woods, like it had been blasted off of a building a million miles away and decided to fly across the length of Panem to land in the middle of the woods. They sipped their last canteen dry and ate some cracker crumbs that Twill managed to scoop out of the bottom of her rucksack. They found a stronger stick for Bonnie to use as a crutch. With appeased stomachs and throats and better attitudes than before, the duo stood and began the march forward. Things were going well.

On the tenth mile, the wolves arrived.

Of course, Twill knew there would be dangers on this journey. Two fugitives, nearly possession-less and certainly homeless, would have to wander the woods alone. But the wolf pack (if you can call four wolves that) circled them, snarling, weak, skinny, hungry. Twill shot her gun.

One went down, the second not far behind. Bonnie managed to whack one on the snout with her crutch, and it fled, but she fell to the ground in the process. The fourth one ripped off Bonnie's thumb and pointer finger before dashing off. Bonnie wailed, screaming bloody murder. Twill quieted her, taking off the girl's sweat soaked woolen socks, wrapping them around the jagged nubs of those two fingers. Bonnie just sobbed and sat on the forest floor.

"I. Can't. Do it!" she shrieked.

"Shh, honey, Bonnie, someone's gonna hear."

"Well I better hope someone hears! Then they can come save us! I am Bonnie Organza. FRICKING SAVE ME!"

"Bonnie," Twill muttered. "Please, please, _please,_ honey. Be quiet."

"To hell with being quiet, goddamit, Twill! We're not going to make it! What are we kidding ourselves. We're _going to die!"_ Bonnie chuckled. "We're going to die, die, die, and die some more, and nothing and no one will be able to help us!"

Twill just grabbed Bonnie's uninjured hand and dragged the probably delirious girl forward.

Nine miles came and went without much consequence, although Bonnie was spitting blood and curses the entire time. Eight miles, and Bonnie's legs buckled. She fell to the ground, screaming curses against the Capitol that would get her hung in the gallows back in 8. She tried to snap her crutch but only ended up hurting her arms. She sobbed uncontrollably, and when she looked up at Twill, the only thing Twill could see in those brown orbs was defeat. Bonnie Organza had given up.

"Go," she whispered. "Go." Twill kissed the girl on the sweaty forehead, squeezing her good hand as tears crept out of her eyes.

"I love you, Bonnie Organza."

"Don't make this hard, Twill. Frickin' go. Please."

Twill gave one last smile before heading away. A minute later, she heard desperate wails and screams from behind her. Twill's eyes bulged and she sprinted back, but it was much too late. The remaining two wolves were already splitting Bonnie's shredded remains by the time Twill found them. Twill screamed and sobbed and shot both wolves to death, and then she kept firing into the dirt until she had no more bullets left. Then she put in her last round of bullets and trudged off.

Mile seven. Mile six. Mile five. The miles passed much faster without having to drag a limping, delirious fourteen year old along. Mile four. Mile three. Mile two. Mile one.

Mile zero.

Twill collapsed in front of the ruins of 13's Justice Building. She begged and pleaded and hoped, she goddamn hoped so hard that her head hurt. She hoped that someone was really below her, that thousands of District 13's citizens actually existed beneath the ground. Because if no one was here, then Twill Eyelet would give up as well, and let her body be mangled by the wolves.

She stripped off her Peacekeeper disguise as she waited. She tossed the helmet into the rubble. She emptied the bullets from her gun and left the empty pistol on the fractured steps of the collapsed Justice Building. She waited for eleven hours.

They let her in when she was only five or six hours away from dying of dehydration.

They poured water down her throat, fixed her wounds, calmed her body with a bit of morphling. But Twill was already numb, lost. The morphling was not needed. She was a lost, broken woman in a lost, broken world.

"What's your name, sweetie?" the nurse asked after she'd recovered enough to speak.

"My named is Ember Organza," Twill muttered. She was now Ember Organza. She was now someone different.

She was now an Ember; she'd always been an Ember. She was now an Organza; she would always miss that fourteen year old girl.

Twill Eyelet was gone. Ember Organza remained in her place.


	7. Galapagos

**Title: Galapagos**

 **Written For Caesar's Palace Claw Machine Challenge (Iguana - Field Scientist AU) and Summer Olympics (Football)**

 **1,241 words of actual story**

 **Hunger Games**

 **Pairing(s): Everlark, Hayffie, Bristel/Gale**

 **Short Story**

 **(I really like this one, might expand it into a multichap)**

* * *

"Good morning, class!" Professor Trinket sings as she walks into the lecture hall. Katniss just sighs a little bit as the frivolous woman struts around the classroom, greeting everyone and detailing today's plans. Katniss shares a bored stare with Madge, who sits next to her. Madge is trying to be a good student, but even Prof. Trinket's sickly sweet optimism and good will bothers her sometimes.

"So, senior Field Science majors!" Prof. Trinket cries after a long lesson about oceanic microorganisms. "There has been a special trip set up by the Smithsonian that will have students from several premier colleges around the nation go on a field study along with two teachers! The trip will be to go study species on the Galapagos Islands, part of the great country of Ecuador! This institute has been allowed two students and two teachers to go on the trip. Professor Abernathy, our...anatomy teacher, will be joining us." Prof. Trinket shudders at the mention of Prof. Abernathy, or Prof. Drunkathy, as the students call him. He's a wasted, burnt out man who somehow got a medical degree, and teaches classes on human anatomy among other things.

"Who is going on this trip?" a boy named Thom speaks up from the back row of seats.

"Well, that's what I was getting to!" Prof. Trinket chides. "We'll be randomly selecting two lucky students from this bowl!" Prof. Trinket removes a glass bowl from the innards of her desk, filled with little slips of paper. Each slip has a student's name on them.

"Students who got A's the past semester have 5 slips in. Students who got B's have 4 slips, C's 3 slips, D's 2 slips, and...F's...1 slip." Katniss scoffs. It's not like Prof. Trinket gives out F's, even if a student is terrible. There's a rumor that no one in her class has ever gotten anything worse than a D, but Katniss doesn't buy it. There has to have been _someone_ who got a terrible grade in this class.

Prof. Trinket dips her hand into the glass bowl and selects a name.

"Peeta Mellark!" Prof. Trinket calls. A boy stands and walks down to stand next to her. He has sandy blonde hair, a muscled physique, and a nice smile, along with interesting blue eyes. Katniss recognizes him as one of the A students in this class. Katniss is a C student, B at best. She likes Field Science, just...school. School sucks.

"Katniss Everdeen!" Prof. Trinket announces. Katniss, stunned, stumbles down to stand on the other side of Prof. Trinket. The woman gives her a warm smile, her overly painted face cracking a bit from the wide grin. _That woman needs to tone down on the makeup_ Katniss thinks.

"Peeta and Katniss will be joining be and Professor Abernathy on the two week trip in the Galapagos! We are leaving next week. Now, for homework, read pages 135 to 142 and write a two page essay on the life cycle of the microorganisms we discussed today! See you all tomorrow!"

Madge and Katniss walk out of the lecture hall, clutching books close to their chests as they leave behind the classroom.

"Peeta's pretty hot. You gonna, you know-"

"With Miss Sephora and Drunkathy looking over our shoulders at all times? And anyway, I'm going home tomorrow for a few days."

"Gale?! Oooh..."

"Yeah."

Nothing would happen that weekend, however. Gale had this new girlfriend named Bristel or something like that. Strange name. Katniss is just deflated as she packs her suitcase for the flight to the Galapagos Islands.

This trip was going to suck.

* * *

This trip was going to be awesome.

Peeta can't keep his hands from shaking in excitement. An actual field study, and he's only a senior in college! His mind is racing. Iguanas, tortoises, penguins, sparrows, cacti, and some much more, all exclusive to the island and all just sitting there in the archipelago, waiting for him to discover, to study, to learn. His father smiles at him as he hands him a cinnamon bun from their bakery. Peeta had driven back home the day before since the airport they were leaving from was closer to home than it was to college. Peeta smiles back at his father as he bites into the pastry. He hugs his father, and finds his mother and two older brothers working behind the counter of the bakery that's connected to their house. He hugs his mother, and shakes hands with his brothers. Then he takes his duffel bag and strides out of his childhood home.

Three hours later he is waiting in line to board the plane. Professors Trinket and Abernathy stand directly in front of him, and Katniss stands next to him. The Professors told them earlier to call them Effie and Haymitch, their real names, but it still bothers Peeta to say their real names in his head. He smiles excitedly at Katniss. She just half heartedly smiles back and looks down at her toes. Hmm.

They board the plane. Prof...Haymitch and Effie sit in the seats in front of them. Katniss sits down in his row, and he eagerly takes the window seat.

"You ever flown before?" Peeta asks as they wait.

"No," Katniss says.

"Scared?"

"No! Just...shut up."

"So you are scared. That's alright, Katniss."

"Just look at the pretty clouds outside your window, alright?"

"We haven't even taken off yet."

"Shit."

The takeoff goes okay, although Katniss grips the sides of the seat so hard that her knuckles turn white. He wants to comfort her, but he also doesn't want to be awkward or anything. So he just gives her a reassuring smile whenever she looks like she's about to hurl.

More than 18 hours later, they've been on three planes and Katniss looks like she's on the verge of puking. She doesn't complain, but he can just see the pain swirling in her beautiful brown eyes, the nerves seeping out as she braids, undoes, and re-braids her silky hair. He eventually just grabs her hand to calm her down when she starts to hyperventilate after they go through a rough patch on the second plane. Katniss looks down distastefully at her hand in his, but she doesn't move it. In fact, she squeezes it tighter whenever she looks especially nauseous.

When they land, Katniss looks unworldly relieved. She staggers out of the plane, and she looks like she wants to kiss the gravel runway beneath their feet like the castaways do in the movies. She does hop up and down a few times to make sure she's still alive, that she's not imagining this. They are driven to the communal dorm where all the students and teachers will be staying.

Peeta and Katniss are given a room to share, just like Effie and Haymitch. They part ways, and Katniss and Peeta reluctantly enter their room. It's small, cramped, the beds pressed up right against the other. They set down their bags and sit there, not speaking, until Effie and Haymitch come into the room.

"Ready, kids?" Effie asks eagerly. They both nod their heads, and then the quartet heads out of the dorm building and into the fascinating landscape of the Galapagos Islands.


	8. Ladder Song

_lowercase on purpose._

 _inspired by ladder song by the ever lovely lorde._

/

words. they slip through her lips like the bills the mailman used to push underneath the door every day. she stares out the window, at the columns of smog blending together. they intermingle, absorbing each other. he listens, his lips curled delicately in thought. finally, no more words come, and the smog pillars still waver indefinitely on the horizon. she begins to drum her fingers against the glass, and asks if the smog will ever go away.

he knows what she really means.

/

their first kiss is bitter, ugly. his teeth scrape her lips, and her breath is molded, her tongue soft and too curious. her bottom lip bleeds and his tongue curls up over itself, and she looks at him, head cocked. her lip throbs, and she licks up the blood dribbling down her chin.

they stare at each other for ten long moments, and they do not move. a splatter of shadows moves across their frozen bodies as the smog clouds outside the window are blown through the sky by a soft gust.

 _kisses taste like death_ she thinks, and she wonders why she loves them so much.

/

everything always starts with blood. a drip, a drop, a splatter, a smear, a streak, a spurt, a dribble, a waterfall. it does not matter. everything starts with blood. birth. death. sex. knowledge. pain. the games. a reaping. twitching hands on a train, cutting open her fingertips on the cutlery. a dress made of wires on a chariot, digging into her apparent spine. biting her tongue when they tell her that _you're_ _special, honey._ {she's not twelve years old}. scraping her filed nails against her palms as caesar guffaws. that's just the beginning. everything begins with blood.

the games begin with blood. the cool gusts of wind carry chunks of six-girl's skin and flesh and blood seven pedestals down to her. the countdown is forgotten by all except her as they stare at the gaping hole in the ground, at the red streaked snow and sky. the gong rings, and she's already grabbing handfuls of the tools she needs before any of them even move a finger.

 _special._

{she's not twelve years old}

/

their first time is rough, choppy, uneven. they're both tired, weak, inexperienced, fumbling for meaning and understanding and fulfillment in bitter, bloody kisses and gnawed away fingernails tracing old scars. they are quiet, limbs awkward, bodies bony, breaths quick and rattling.

the lay curled together, trying to fit together like two gears. her elbow juts into his stomach, and his chin digs into her forehead. they do not fit together. they are jagged, rough, not part of any machine, their own gears, their own entities.

she clutches the sheets to her chest, and he turns his back to her. heat fills their cheeks, and he gives a defeated sigh. they never work. they never will. they _never_ will.

/

wires coil around her fingers, and his fingertips are splayed across a perfect glass screen. they weld and sand and tweak and hammer and design and adjust, sparks flying and burning tiny holes in their clothes, grease slathering itself across the undersides of their arms. this is the only place that they work. this is the only place where there is no blood. they fit together creations of wonder, holograms and dials and systems and codes and machines, watching the metal flow together, the projections shimmer, the buttons glint, and the wires gleam.

her stomach is scarred. these are the only things that they can create together. sex is meaningless, speculations about future families pointless. the only future they have is each other, the jagged halves that don't quite fit. but there's no one else quite as jagged as them, so there can't be a better fit out there, can there?

/

two desks, side by side. huge screens, scraping the heavens and then some, flash with statistics and health assessments and most of all the wide eyed outliers and hungry, crackpot careers. two people, dwarfed by the screens, watch with bated breath every year as wide eyes bug out and hunger is sated and all they can say is "maybe next year" even though they know it will never come.

she watches, wanting to squeeze her eyes shut and look away and do anything but _look look look look look_ as their girl stares at the sky. she's on her back, like she has been for a week. her ribs point upwards towards the heavens, and her last breaths leave her lungs as her eyes stop glistening and her fingers stop weakly tapping the grassy ground and her flat chest stops quivering.

she cries and cries and cries and asks when the smog will finally clear.

soon, he croons, when he really means _never._

/

 **A/N: This was just a little Wiretee that I wrote a while ago, and I need to clear up some space on Doc Manager so I'm posting it xD That's the partial truth, but I wanted to put out a little something since I haven't put any new content on this story in ages. I hope you enjoyed it, since Wiretee is pretty much my invented THG OTP, although Clato is up there and I really need to write Clato sometime. Thanks for reading, and drop a review if you're able, I would love to hear what you thought of this!**


	9. Mistakes

**Snowball fight begins! For Misty, because I was #TeamKile to the end and saw the Erik "blindside" the moment he appeared in the series. KILEXEADLYN FOR LIFE!**

 **This will maybe evolve into a multichap? Idk.**

* * *

It's not supposed to be like this. Happy couples come out of the Selection. America Singer and Maxon Schreave. The epitome of love surviving hardships and blossoming out of unfavorable conditions. Amberly Station and Clarkson Schreave. Not a happy marriage by any means, but they got along and governed their country well and hid the blood and the tears and the heartache. This isn't supposed to happen.

Kile looks down at the tabloid in his hands, and the others on the rack, a variation of the same story over and over. Queen Eadlyn Schreave red faced, frothing and screaming, a red hand print on her cheek, and _Eikko, oh he's foreign!_ screaming back as he storms out of the palace. Love. "Love." The Selection always has its flaws, but it always produces honest to god love. Love.

Kile's felt it for Eadlyn for the past four years.

The first two years passed in a euphoric blur. He had flings with girls at architecture school and learned how to build an elegant mansion from a shipment of brick and mortar. He learned how to shape walls and floors on blue gridded paper, and he watched as on site his dreams came true, towering skyscrapers and humble cottages and park edifices and everything in between. Things were happy, but they were a hollow happy, a pleasure happy. He loved his work, but it was pure indulgence. It meant nothing to him. He would find himself staring at the stars at night, not knowing what the problem was.

The third year, he realized it was her. The Woodworks had lived in the palace forever, and Kile's parents still did even if he and Josie did not. He was often invited to this function or that gala, but he was always in the middle of some project or neck deep in exams or something like that. He was always occupied. But on the third anniversary of the marriage of Eadlyn and _Eikko,_ exams were four weeks behind him and he was in a slump as he planned his end-of-the-semester design. He flew out to Angeles and walked in the palace and life came back to him. The halls, the paintings, the food, the smells.

The girl.

She had a smile on her face; Queen Eadlyn Schreave and King Eikko Koskinen, seated at the end of the table, warm smiles and jubilant greetings and proper handshakes. When Kile stood in front of Eadlyn, his hand grasping hers, there was no explosion of passion or light. It was just...Eadlyn. He wanted to squeeze harder, to hold her hand forever. Eadlyn felt like the things he'd secretly missed, the things he'd been repressing. He'd thrown his home, his past, into the dumpster so he wouldn't feel homesick during his studies. But now he realized he missed his mother's sweet smelling hair, his father's deep laugh, the way Josie's smile glowed in the dark, the way Eadlyn's hand cupped in his when they were children. Kile looks into Eadlyn's eyes and sees past the exterior; he puts on the same mask she does every day, they grew up together, they were taught how to act the same exact way when they were upset or angry. A too big smile, a too loose handshake, a too rumpled dress, a too thick mask of makeup. Eadlyn Schreave was in pain, but Kile had no idea why. All he wanted to do was assuage her pain, however.

Eadlyn let go of his hand, and she was gone.

The secrets seeped out under the palace's doors as the days passed. Kile didn't believe them, of course, but he had hope. He fumbled in his studies and all his designs started to revolve around a palace and a girl. His designs are marked as lacking creativity and drive, and he begins to search helplessly for what is supposed to make him happy. Then here he is, standing on the street, with a magazine among dozens advertising the controversial split of Eadlyn and her oh-so passionate, surprise lover Eikko. His name is Erik. Kile wants to hurt him. Erik had Eadlyn Schreave, and he let her go.

He doesn't know why. He leaves college without telling anyone, flying halfway across the country into Angeles unannounced. Of course the guards let him come in, he's Lady Marlee's son and they all know him, the older ones anyway. Kile walks through the palace like a ghost with paper white skin and a hollow cavity in his chest, and he walks into the hallway where they first kissed and almost expects her to be there. She's not.

He searches for hours. His parents find him before he finds Eadlyn, and they tell him she's locked herself away in on of the upper floor's rooms and refuses to come out.

"We're so happy you're here," his mother whispers, and he just hugs her and nods and leaves when he can. He loves his mother, but he needs to find Eadlyn Schreave, he needs to make this right, he just needs to see her and let everything he feels go.

He picks the lock once he finds the door and pushes it open. The vase sails over his head and smashes into a thousand glittering purple and white ceramic shards behind him. Kile isn't fazed. He walks into the room. Eadlyn stands in front of him with a tear stained face and a sagging posture, the epitome of a girl who's given up on life. The mask is gone, everything's gone, and she's Eadlyn.

"Never were the best at aiming, where you?" Kile whispers hoarsely. "Never were the best at...at love, either. Just like me."

"Kile...leave," Eadlyn shudders. "Just leave."

"I love you and I don't know why," Kile murmurs as he turns to leave. "I love you and I don't want to, but I do."

"You never make sense, Kile," Eadlyn hisses, and it's not a joking, flirtatious remark, it's cold and slimy and dead and Kile squeezes his eyes shut and walks out of the door. He feels lighter, but Eadlyn still tugs at his heart. He waits at the door for a millennia but she doesn't come running out to embrace him. Eadlyn Schreave made up her mind four years ago. Kile wasn't the right one for her. He never will be. Kile slips to the floor and just holds his head in his hands.


	10. Etchings

**A/N: For Caesar's Palace Monthly Oneshot Contest December 2016. Enjoy.**

* * *

He wants to rub his rheumy eyes, to clear the black spots that hang over his eyes. His paper crinkled hands twitch under the covers, but he can't move. He's not strong enough to do so. The covers are thick and woolly, warm and necessary to keep his frail body from convulsing in the winter chill, but they weigh him down like there's shackles over his arms, clamping him down to the bed.

"Cecelia," Bridel whispers, his voice a wisp of smoke, dissipating the moment it leaves his lips. He tries again. "Ce-cecelia," he groans, a little louder this time. The dust just sits on the mantel of the smoldering fire place and the rusty ceiling fan hangs motionlessly above him. "Cecelia! Cecelia Rheys!" No answer. Bridel Castro shivers and presses his thin, wrinkled body into the pillows.

The door clicks open some time later; it might have been an hour, or maybe a month. Time is just a figment of humanity's imagination, after all. When one is closed inside a motheaten old room, their aging body shutting down bit by bit, figments are simply that, figments. They're not important. Bridel doesn't know when it is morning or night. He only knows when he wakes and when he sleeps.

An older woman, older than Cecelia, walks into the room.

"Lycra," Bridel murmurs. "Lycra, come," he barks quietly, like a master, like Lyrca is a dog. The middle aged woman obliges, her face shadows behind her long black hair. She sits on the foot of the bed and stares at her father's toes sticking out from under the covers, wrapped in thick woolen stockings. There's a hole in one of the socks, and the tip of Bridel's left pinky pokes out. Lycra pulls the covers over his foot before looking up at him.

"Why are you shouting Mom's name?" Lycra inquires, her voice soft and distant as she stares at the intricate headboard behind Bridel.

"Where is Cecelia?" Bridel says in reply, his words breathy and breviary. Lycra just holds her father's hand in her own. His hand is clammy, cold, hers warmer. She shivers at the touch but plasters on a false smile.

"Where is Cecelia?" Bridel insists. Lycra's eyes fill with tears, and she turns her head to look at the window, the motheaten velvet drapes hiding the cold, warped panes of glass from view. She sighs, a shuddery, hideous thing.

"Mommy's dead," Lycra finally manages to utter. "She died forty five years ago, Daddy. In the Quell. How...how do you not remember? Brutus grabbed her by her hair and slashed her throat with his-"

"Where is Cecelia?" Bridel growls, his voice guttural and stony, sharp. Lycra gulps.

"In the graveyard with all the other Victors," Lycra hisses finally, after a minute of silence. "They're all gone now. Tex was the last one to go a couple of years ago. Mommy, she's with Woof and Organza and Tex, her friends, and she's with Abraham, too, Daddy."

"Take me to Cecelia," Bridel commands, his airy voice gaining a quality of acerbity. Lycra obliges.

O0oo0O

The cold air bites across Bridel's feathery-light body, lashing him with its ice cold whip called wind. Bridel stares at the slate gray skies with the slowly burgeoning clouds, thick and dark gray and limp in the heavens above. He relishes what must be his final time out in the open winter air; God would only prepare such an ominous greeting if his end was nearing. Lycra pushes the wheelchair over the cracked pavement. The haunting, broken down houses of Eight's Victor's Village cast shadows across them, and Lycra squeezes her eyes shut and stops. The house she grew up in, the house where she and her brother Abe and sister Camille were born, stands to the left, and Bridel doesn't even notice it. The memories are an onslaught on her emotions, and Camille's soft hand rests on her shoulder. Camille's come in from the Capitol where she works in the government to see their father. His end is drawing near. They look at the abandoned house and walk along, Camille now pushing Bridel while Lycra hugs her arms around herself and tries to fend off the cold.

In the center of the village, a small island of green, once manicured grass rose from the sea of pavement driveways and cul de sac. Lycra and Camille and Abe played on that little hill in the center of the Village when they were little. They would pretend it was a magical desert island and they were inventive castaways, and aging Woof and Organza would watch with light smiles, and their mother Cecelia and the more youthful Tex would sometimes join in, and so would Tex's wife Abilene and Bridel himself. Then one day Cecelia and Woof were taken away, and then bombs rained from the skies on a day when everything was black and red. Organza didn't make it out, and their paradise died. It was a paradise lost to them through the fires of hell, and they never really came back. They only came back to bury the slashed remains of Cecelia, the crumpled remains of Woof, the charred remains of Organza. In the years that followed, Abe died of cancer at age thirty one and Tex died soon afterwards from heart failure. Five dark gray granite headstones rise out of the now wild island of vegetation in the desolate ruins of the Victor's Village of District Eight. Five headstones, reading the names _Woof Parsons. Cecelia Rheys-Castro. Organza White. Abe Castro. Tex Hannon._ Camille wheels Bridel Castro up the hill and settles him in front of the five graves. Lycra walks up behind them and falls to her knees in front of Abe's grave. It is silent for eternity as five names, etched forever in granite stone, speak volumes in an empty world.

"Are you afraid?" Lycra asks after an eon. Bridel does not respond for a long time. His eyes are locked on the headstone, and he remembers meeting Cecelia on a night when the moon hung in the sky like a ripe piece of fruit and the heat of the summer day hung around. He remembers the ceremony of matrimony and making love to his new wife. He remembers the birth of his children, and then watching their mother get ripped away from them at a Reaping while he watched in tears. He watched her die on screen after she'd already survived the Games once, and he laid in bed for two months and did not get out, he didn't get out until they bombed the village. He wanted to stay there and let the fire claim him, he wanted to die, because he had let her die. He remembers the end of the Games, the end of the rebellion, the beginning of a new government, but politics weren't important, never were important to the simple man from District Eight who had his lover and his three children and a modest home in the Victor's Village of Eight to make him happy. That was all he needed.

"I'm afraid. How couldn't I be?" Bridel murmurs back. He heaves his wheelchair closer to his wife's grave, and he reaches out and traces the letters of her name, carved smoothly into the sleek grave marker.

"You've dealt with death forever," Lycra responds, her voice tired and limp in the cold winter air.

"I've always been scared of death. Death is an end. Death is inescapable. I...I always thought I would be the first one to go. I didn't want to see any of you die. I...I...I wanted to leave first. I was selfish. I wanted to die with all of you left. But...but now Cecelia's dead. Abey's dead. I'm dead. We're all dead. None of us will ever live. We're all just dead. Dead." His words hang in the air, and Camille draws in a sharp breath.

"Some wounds will never heal," Camille says quietly, placing her hand on Bridel's shoulder. "I love you, father."

"I love you, Daddy," Lycra whimpers from the ground, where she's dissolved to tears. Camille crouches between the two of them, trying to comfort the both of them but not doing a good enough job. Some wounds never heal.

"I think I'm ready," Bridel murmurs. "I'm ready to go home." The two daughters wheel their father back to his home. Three days later, Bridel let his last rattling breath escape his lips. He quivered with fear as the breath faded into the night and his body was suddenly so weightless. He sagged against the pillows, and she swore he heard Cecelia's sweet voice serenading him as he fell into the darkness.


	11. The Faerie

**A/N: Finally, my dear Belle! Here's some Clato for you :) Takes place in my 500YOP Universe ;) Spoilers of how the end of the 74th Games will play out and spoiler for the Victor, although if you've read Tiered you already know the Victor.**

* * *

A big Victor's Village watches from home, and Brutus and Enobaria, hands locked in a rare show of fear, watch as Cato and Clove stride forward with the sunset glistening in their hair and the blood of a half dozen under their ragged nails. They shouldn't be afraid, after all. It's Cato Hadley, it's Clove Oberone, they're fine. They're the best the Academy's produced in five years, and they've gotten a Victor in the past five years. They'll survive. It's just that the ox from 11 and his little faerie girl are left, along with a broken lover boy, fresh off of the death of the Girl on Fire. The Games have been a wild, fiery blur, with a huge Bloodbath, love and passion from Peeta and Katniss as they kissed under the stars, something hidden behind corners, tucked into secret moments between Cato and Clove. When they know the cameras are somewhere else, they let their fingers touch the other's ever so lightly. When they know the cameras are somewhere else, they let their fear show in too wide eyes and too quick steps.

They know the announcement of two Victors was for the Star Crossed Lovers; the audience loved them. Of course, the audience now probably hates Clove for knifing her at the Feast, carving her face to ribbons, but it was all she could do. The Finch girl (who died the next day at Cato's hands) had run off already and the ox from Eleven threw Clove to the ground and ran with the supplies for himself and the little squirt from his District. Katniss Everdeen was the only one left to kill, and they had to put on a show. Cato held down her arms and Clove laid on her legs and tore her to pieces like a rabid dog, but it didn't feel good like it was supposed to, taking out the big target towards the endgame. None of it felt good any longer.

"What is love?" Clove asks as she uses a machete to slice through a thick section of brush in the forest. It's nearing the huge wheat field, so the undergrowth has grown wild, unruly. The ox and the faerie are hiding in the field; it's the only place they could conceivably be. They don't care about where lover boy is; he'll be dead soon enough.

"Ask lover boy," Cato grunts, not wanting to talk about the grazes and the long looks under the cover of night. They both chuckle, hollow and fake, and then, as if mocking them, a cannon fires, and it's not from the fields. They would hear if anything was happening in the sea of wheat. Lover boy has died, love has died, and Clove feels queasy and Cato starts to sweat. They both pause and drink some water and stare at the sky as dusk starts to fall.

"We have to move faster," Cato gasps between gulps from his canteen. Clove nods her head sharply, and the two put away their water and take up their sword and knives and walk just a little faster. Cato takes over clearing the undergrowth, and his blade sings through the air, slicing through the brambles like they're butter, as he keeps his eyes squinted, hiding the fear that's inside them.

They walk through the wheat as the arena begins to darken, but they can't stop. It needs to end. The climax has been building for two weeks, and both of them are sick of the crescendo; they just want to fast forward to the inevitable ending, where it's just the two of them to fight. Neither of them really want it, but they pretend that they do. They pretend, because that's all they do at this point.

When the moon is gleaming in the star spangled night sky, a full, ripe, silvery white circle dangling down from the heavens, they find them. The moonlight makes the wheat glisten like spun gold, and Clove and Cato crouch at the edge of the clearing and watch as Thresh sings an old harvest song in a low, warbling voice, and Rue hums along softly, her voice light and high pitched. Cato's hand finds Clove's in the tangle of dirt and wheat, hidden from the cameras, and he squeezes her hand tight, and then they're surging forward to the sounds of screams.

"RUN, RUE!" Thresh roars, throwing her off of his lap as he picks up his crescent sword, his silvery sickle. Rue disappears into the wheat, there one moment and gone the next, picking up one of their packs and sprinting away as Thresh slashes at Clove with his sickle. She tries to dodge; her throwing knives will do nothing to block this brutal blow. It slices into her collarbone, and Cato roars, shoving Thresh to the side and cutting into his left kneecap with his sword. Thresh smacks the pommel of his sickle into Cato's cheek, sending him stepping back a bit. Cato lifts his sword up, but Clove's already screaming bloody murder as Thresh hacks into her right leg, tearing it to shreds as gore flies. Clove throws a knife haphazardly, and it smacks into Thresh's left shoulder. He just keeps going, slicing into Clove's other leg until Cato rushes at him once he's righted himself. Cato barrels into Thresh, and with one swing of his sword the boy's blocky head flies from his shoulders, a trail of blood flying out behind it. Cato swallows the bile that fills his mouth as Thresh's headless corpse collapses and his dismembered head hits the ground wetly. He looks away and runs over to Clove's side, but she stops him with a look. It's mostly pain, but there's also another look.

"Go, Cato," Clove whispers. Suddenly he hears the barking, far off but getting closer, and he knows it's the end, it's just him and Clove and the faerie girl and Clove's practically dead at this point. She can't even stand. "Go!" she yells louder. The barks are close, too close to save her, and Cato just growls at her, trying to keep on the mask while his heart is hacked to pieces and he hates himself. He wants to slice off his own head as he turns away from Clove and jogs away.

Her cannon fires a couple of minutes later. He can still hear the barking, and he hears her wretched screams echoing through the arena. He should have just ended her then, but he didn't, and he hates himself for it. He runs faster and faster through the wheat and tries to put the screams behind him. He's won, hasn't he? All that's left is a little twelve year old girl from Eleven. He doesn't want to jinx himself, but he's won once he tracks her down.

He comes to the Cornucopia soon enough. One glance back and he can see the canine mutts with varying shades of fur, from light gold to raven black, barking and snarling, a quarter mile behind him. He stops near the mouth of the Horn; it's desolate, looted, all of its supplies gone. It's a ghost of the glory of what it once was, just like he is. Rue's nowhere in sight. The faerie's gone, magicked out of here probably somehow. He'll have to face the dogs. He doesn't want to face them, even though he harbors enough anger against them; they did kill Clove, after all. He still doesn't want to face them. He just wants to kill Rue and go home. He just wants this all to be over. This isn't what he thought it would be. Nothing's like what he thought it would be.

"Rue!" he shouts. He opens his mouth wide as he whoops, "RUE!"

He sees her then, with his mouth gaping open, on the top of the Cornucopia, her bushy dark brown mane framing her cute, young face. There's the soft _twang_ of her slingshot as it releases the small, jagged rock, and it goes straight into his mouth and down his throat. The dogs are close; their barking is deafening. Cato starts to choke, and he drops his sword as the rough pebble blocks his throat. He can't breathe. He _can't breathe._ His throat works hard to spit up the rock, to get air flooding back into his lungs. Finally, he spits up the rock along with a handful of saliva, but then the dogs are jumping on him. He picks up his sword and hacks off the head of one in a single fluid motion, but there's too many of them, over a dozen, and they're tearing at his fingers and his toes and his scalp and his nose and his eyes and his tendons and his heart. He dies on that field where the initial Bloodbath claimed so many. He dies with the little faerie girl, the youngest tribute to ever win the Games in 500 years and counting, watching from the Horn.

He dies finding some solace in the fact that Clove died exactly the same way.


	12. Cripple

**A/N: For my lovely Mags! Enjoy!**

* * *

He hobbles across the mossy forest floor, his breath coming out in short gasps. It's been a handful of days since the Bloodbath and he's still moving. Elissa's dead, thirteen others are dead, and he shouldn't be alive. He's a cripple. He should be dead. He looks at his awkwardly twisted leg and his thoughts can't help but flash back to her. He doesn't want to be a sob story. He never talked about Mariana, or how his leg was disfigured when he was fourteen.

"Mariana," he whispers quietly one night, head titled up at the fake stars on the black sheet of the arena's fabricated sky, it's too perfect sky. She can't hear him, no one can hear him. They will never show him on their screens; he doubts he's made it on there since he had a close scrape with that 8 girl right after the Bloodbath. She died that night, and he survived. He shouldn't be alive.

"Mariana," he murmurs again, his right hand instinctively reaching down to brush against his crippled leg. Everything he's been trying to suppress comes to the surface, bubbling and lurching into the limelight as his skin becomes browner than usual and his humanity is scrubbed away bit by bit, like a tough stain slowly coming away under the force of a sponge. He's wild and instinctive, and he remembers the girl he loves, the girl that he broke his leg to save. He doesn't think back to the night when it happened; he doesn't remember it well, to be honest. All he remembers is her laughing face and the fence and then the Peacekeepers and a haze of brilliant pain and black, never ending black, the type that seems like death. Her tinkling laugh haunts him through all of his dreams as it intermingles with the report of the Peacekeeper's assault rifle, and then her screams and his soft groans of pain mix into the melody and it's a choir of pain and horror and heartbreak singing in his head and all he wants to do is bash his head against the ground and end it. They were just curious kids, free falling in love. They were just curious kids, wondering if the fence really was electrified. It was, but it wasn't strong. It tickled. And then the Peacekeepers were there with death swooping in behind him and his life changed forever. He lets a low, guttural moan creep from his lips as he curls up in a ball at the feet of the tree where he's sleeping, ducking down behind the huge roots that curl like huge talons out of the earth. He pulls his jacket close around himself and eats the last crumbs of his bread and knows it's time for him to go.

He's not naive. What he had with Mariana would never have lasted. He doesn't believe in a God or a life after death. The last time he saw her was when he went to her wake in a blur of tears, and he saw her pale, icy figure in a pastel pink blouse through a cloud of tears. His heart throbs in his chest like it wants to get out, and he tosses and turns. He can't sleep. He suddenly shoots to his feet and slams his fist into the trunk of the tree behind him. His knuckles bleed, and he knows he's alive, but it's not enough. He wants his heart _out._ He needs it _gone._ He claws at his chest and growls again, louder this time, the bass sound reverberating through the forest. Everything's black, dipped in night's ink jar, and it's that night again and he's losing it and it's not even the first week yet and he's already killing himself. He roars over and over again, and he's screaming words he can't make out until his voice runs out.

"COME GET ME! TEAR MY HEART OUT! TEAR MY HEART OUT!" He drives his shoulder into the tree and his crippled leg buckles beneath him and he slams his fists into the soggy dirt over and over again until he hears footsteps and whooping. He sees the electric white light of flashlights scissoring through the death darkness around him and he sits criss cross apple sauce style and tries to put on a smile.

Cato stops in front of the boy, Clove and Marvel just behind him.

"Tear my heart out. Please," Angus whispers, his voice hoarse and quiet.

"Gladly," Cato chuckles, and he surges forward, and Angus wishes death was as quiet as the darkness of night. He gurgles as Cato stands over him with a jagged, bloody piece of meat in his hand, grinning madly.

"Is this the heart?" Cato asks, turning to Clove, and then there's all darkness. He almost hopes he'll see Mariana.

He doesn't.


	13. The Cooper's Shop

For the Caesar's Palace Six-Word Stories Contest. Prompt: Ma'am, we have no smaller casket. Credit for six word story: octocelot

* * *

 _Some people die at 25 and aren't buried until 75. - Benjamin Franklin_

* * *

Helga Yallansen shuffled down the damp, cracked asphalt streets. Thin and winding like unspooled string, the disjointed streets sloped and curved throughout the maze of the inner city, especially crazed in the slums. The spiderweb of alleys and roads were stamped in the memories of all who resided on them for their too-short lives. Helga Yallansen was not one of those people. Her dark eyes flickered around in fear as she clicked across the broken mess of roads, underneath the dripping, lurching eaves of the lopsided buildings. Her nice faded burgundy skirt and blouse complimented her cream colored heels nicely, and her plump figure betrayed her years of pampering and overindulgence. The only thing that was not pretty and stately about her was her face, specifically her eyes. Her face was sunken and sallow, and her eyes were too wide and perpetually red, stinging with lurking tears. She wept more than she spoke, and her nose leaked clear, runny fluid more often than not. She shifted the black velvet bag in her hands to dab at her snotty nose with a rag. The objects inside clinked together, sending a violent shiver throughout her body. She dropped her hankie, and the sodden scrap of cotton landed where a pool of oily water had collected in a depression in the road. She clenched her jaw and abandoned her rag, reluctantly wiping her nose a moment later with the back of her sickly pale hand. Soon she spotted her destination up ahead, tucked in between a sagging apartment complex and an abandoned spice shop. Her grip on the black velvet drawstring bag of sorts tightened, and she stiffly marched herself onto the skinny sidewalk and up to the establishment's sullen door.

The word _Cooper_ was carved unceremoniously on the wide ingress, flaking white paint streaked over the chiseled letters to make them more apparent. A cooper's shop. In the cloudy windows, baskets hung from rusty ceiling hooks, and barrels and buckets were crowded on small platforms, barely rising above the bottom edge of the window. The bleak view was enough to send a firmer frown on Helga Yallansen's face, but the unfitting tinkle of chimes when she opened the shop's door made the skin around her mouth crease even more. The sound still triggered too fresh memories in the forty-something year old woman's troubled mind.

"Hello, ma'am," the shopkeeper crooned from behind the long, cluttered counter. The man, stocky and on the shorter side, had dozens of papers splayed across the counter top. He sat in the murky half-darkness of Eight's afternoon, but he flicked on a small lamp once Helga entered the store. A warm, buttery orange glow emanated from the dusty lantern once it was on. Half of the store was awash with golden tones, while the other half remained in shadow.

The man hobbled out from around the counter. He was old, older than the Games by a good two decades. His shop was secluded and rarely got many visitors. It was so hidden that once he'd gone bankrupt three years prior, the Peacekeepers had forgotten to evict him. He'd managed to stay on the property, and now he had barely enough to keep himself fed and the windows full of his merchandise. He walked with a heavy limp due to the injury he'd sustained during the Dark Days when he was just a young man. The Peacekeepers were firing their mortars down the same crowded streets, just with more upright buildings back then. Something had fallen and his leg had twisted painfully, and he hadn't walked right since. The day of his crippling was also the day that his father and two older brothers perished fighting to protect their District from the Capitol. It was also the day that he inherited the family coopering business, and the day that District Eight fell back into Capitolite clutches.

"The name's Felter McClellan," the man commented hoarsely, extending his hand towards Helga. She gingerly accepted the proffering of welcome. "So, what's a pretty woman like you doing round here without someone else to protect you?"

"You mean what's a rich merchant girl doing scouring the old merchant streets and now slums without someone to fend off the robbers and rapists?" Helga replied back easily, not a hint of joking in her gravelly voice. "I'm not rich anymore, Mr. McClellan."

"I'm sorry to hear that, deary," Felter murmured, not exactly sure how to reply to that. "Say, darling, what's your name?"

Helga stepped more into the light so the cooper could see her gaunt looking face and watery eyes. Recognition tickled at his stomach, but his aging brain couldn't quite fit together the pieces until Helga impatiently muttered, "Helga Yallansen...well, Sørensen now," before turning to inspect a row of wicker baskets lined up on the floor in front of the counter.

It took quite a while for Felter to respond. He instantly understood the sorrow in her face and the tears brimming in her eyes. No one would forget the surname Yallansen for quite some time. Just seven months ago, in the Forty Fifth Hunger Games, eighteen year old Booker Yallansen had been Reaped. He'd entered the Games and made it far, farther than anyone from Eight had gone since the infamous Kihgi Agora. But he'd died days short of the finale, insane and alone and broken a hundred times over. The events following his death rippled through the District like wildfire. His girlfriend's mental breakdown which sent her to the asylum, his parents' depression, violent fighting, and nasty divorce following the Games, and then the husband's suicide only a month and a half ago. He was the moneymaker, and he'd left all of his money to orphanages, writing his ex wife out of his will after the divorce. Helga had been through hell and back the past months with nothing to show for it besides debt and a pretty face turned sour.

"I'm so sorry," Felter McClellan whimpered back quietly.

"Oh, we all go through hell in ours lives," Helga snapped. "Dozens of other families have suffered tragedy because of the Games. It's how this world works. I don't need your sorrow or your pity, Mr. McClellan. Now please, I'd like to buy some of your product and finally go bury my son."

"So you're here to buy a casket for Booker, not your husband?" Felter whispered unsteadily, feeling as if he were walking on thin ice.

Helga chuckled, low and hollow. "As if his family would let me help bury him. They believe I'm the reason he shot himself. They won't even let me come to the funeral or take more than a suitcase's worth of things from my own goddamn home." Helga took a deep breath and then cleared her throat before continuing. "I'm here to buy a casket for my son. Or what's left of him."

"Booker was a big boy," Felter mused. "How big of a container are you going to need?"

"Enough to house this," Helga growled. She pulled out the black velvet drawstring. As she opened it, Felter noticed the name _Booker_ was embroidered on the bag with white thread. Little white roses were also stitched in on that part of the bag.

Helga poured out three smooth ribs, a fractured piece of a skull, six teeth, a shard of a jawbone, and a hunk of a kneecap onto the wooden counter.

"That's it?" Felter murmured quietly, his large hazel eyes open wide in shock.

"That's it," Helga hissed. "Cyndala's assistant's assistant said in her personal letter that the alligator mutts digested everything else before it could be recovered."

"Let me go find something," Felter replied, almost crestfallen in a way as he shuffled into the back room. He sifted through the various caskets and coffins in the backroom, looking for the only infant one he kept on stock. He carried the little casket he found out to Helga. It was made of dark cherry wood, and when Felter wiped away the dust, it shone under the radiant glow of the small, beaded lamp Felter had lit.

"You can put the ribs along here, the fractured piece here-" the cooper began, carefully and slowly showing the piece of the battered woman.

"It's too big," Helga said quietly.

"Hmm?" Felter questioned, looking up into the woman's tearing eyes.

"He always liked to be close and snug. He got uncomfortable in open spaces. I always thought he had mild agoraphobia," Helga replied steadily, keeping the waver out of her voice and blinking back the swelling tears. "It's too big," she repeated.

"Well, I can build something else. I don't have anything in the store that is-" Felter began, fishing in a drawer for a pencil.

"No, Mr. McClellan, it's alright," Helga coughed, sweeping the scant remains of her only child back into the velveteen drawstring. They settled at the bottom with a few muffled clacks. "It's alright, it's alright. I shouldn't have come here anyway, it's not like I can afford a burial plot or that I'm even going to use the whole thing. I should go." She cleared her throat, curtly saying, "Goodnight, sir. I hope you have good luck with your shop."

Helga strode away from the counter without another word, her cream heels clacking quietly against the creaky floorboards of the shop.

"Mrs. Yallansen-"

Felter was cut off by the tingle of the chimes above the door cascading across one another. The brass hinges of the door groaned as the door eased itself shut. The cooper wanted to leap over the desk and sprint out into the street. He wanted to grab Helga by the elbow and give her half the baskets and coffins and barrels in his store and tell her to sell them to get herself back on her feet. He wanted to help her, to do anything to save her.

It began to drizzle outside as Felter McClellan stared out the warped, homemade glass of his windows, wondering where Helga was headed, and what she planned to do.

Helga strode down the street, one hand gripping the plush bag holding the bones of her deceased son, the other clutching her aching breast.

"It's too big," she murmured once more, tracing a lopsided circle over her chest as she skidded along through the rain.

* * *

"Good morning, pops," Paisley McClellan grinned as she entered the shop. The chimes tinkled jovially, and the sunlight streamed through the distorted windowpanes. The factories were shut down today like they were on every Sunday for maintenance, and the smog and gloom that clung to Eight had cleared somewhat, bathing the District in a refreshing light. In her hands, Felter's daughter carried a brown paper bag full of yesterday's breakfast from a brunch at her rich husband's family home. She'd married well, and her loving husband had a big heart and even bigger pockets. She also held the newspaper that got issued to her front doorsteps every other day. Another perk of being wealthy; she was up to date on everything that was anything in the District and the nation.

"My little button," Felter chuckled, lurching out of his seat to embrace her after she'd set down the things she'd brought with her. He had awoken earlier than usual from a violent, incoherent dream of the pounding rain that turned to boiling blood, scorching his skin until he was on fire. As he'd run around like a maniac, suddenly he tripped over the corpse of his dead wife Evangeline, six years dead from a vicious case of pancreatic cancer. He awoke then, and had been mulling over the troubling vision for the past half hour while he waited for the cheery presence of his daughter. She lived on the other side of the District with her husband and their two sons, in the richest neighborhood with full bellies and big grins. It was all he could ask for. She came and visited him every Sunday morning to share breakfast and the events of the week.

They sat down at the counter, opening the doggy bag and splitting the sausage, scrambled eggs, and pancakes inside, all kept warm in a special container that Paisley had gotten from her husband on her birthday just for this purpose. As they dug in, they both decided what to share first.

"Percale made the middle school's honor roll this semester. He was so happy, you know how he struggles with school, and we were all so proud of him. His little 'friend' Taffeta Richardson even sent him a little card in congratulations," Paisley said with pride after sucking down an entire flapjack drenched in syrup. "I told them no monkey business, but I have a feeling they kissed last-"

"Helga Yallansen came to my shop four days ago," Felter blurted suddenly. The shop fell silent, as it usually was, and Paisley stared at Felter open mouthed. The scrambled eggs she'd scooped onto her fork plopped back onto her plate, and she fumbled for words.

"N-n-no...no way, Dad," Paisley stumbled.

"What's wrong? It's just been weighing on me, the poor woman, she looked so sad. She came here for a coffin for Booker, but there wasn't a small enough one since all she has is a little sack of his bones. I wish I could've done something more to help her."

"She committed suicide four nights ago," Paisley murmured, shell shocked. "Threw herself into the River with rocks tied to her ankles. The only thing they recovered were the scraps of a black velveteen bag and a few fractured bones along with one of her heels. I didn't know you knew her."

"I...I didn't," Felter whimpered, staring at his daughter with fear in his eyes. "Oh Paisley." The two embraced tightly. "Their whole family, just gone like that..."

"I hope to the heavens above that neither Percale nor Serge ever get Reaped," Paisley sighed into her father's shoulder.

Felter couldn't respond, keeping his mouth shut as he held his beloved daughter as snugly as he could. If only he'd had a smaller casket. If only Booker had survived, and the whole Yallansen family would still be together. Well, they were still together. Together in death.

"I have to go," Paisley said all of the sudden, glancing down at her watch right after they broke their hug. She should have left three minutes earlier; Serge had a basketball game within the hour.

"We need to get together more," Felter pleaded. "I need to see the kids more."

"I know," Paisley murmured quietly, kissing her father on the forehead. "I'll see you soon, pops."

"I love you, my little button, no matter what."

"I know, pops. I love you too."

It hurt to watch her go, and Felter just couldn't stop thinking that the District was too goddamn big as his only remaining family hurried out of the shop and down the cracked street to rush to her son's game on the other side of the city. Once she was out of sight, Felter stood, his joints creaking. He shuffled to the back of the building, where his whittling tools, wood, and other things were ordered nicely. He began at once to craft a minuscule baby coffin, one too small for most infants even. And he didn't know why he cried as he worked, but he did, and it felt nice to release for one. Soon enough the tears stopped, and the only sound in the cooper's shop was the rhythmic grind of Felter McClellan's tools against the hunk of wood he was working into a masterpiece. One can always find salvation in the simple things. Most people, like Helga and her husband, even Booker, just choose to overlook them.


End file.
